


there is no before

by nosecoffee



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Assassin AU, Blatant Hurt, F/F, Gen, Guilt, Home Videos, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, Low-Key Murder, M/M, Memories, Moral Ambiguity, Mystery, Recovery, Repitition, Romance, Sort of Dollhouse AU, Support Groups, ambiguous ending, bad habits, blatant comfort, forums, internet friendships, spy AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 00:25:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17151833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nosecoffee/pseuds/nosecoffee
Summary: (only now)*"I keep telling myself that it could be much worse. But I also know that it could be much better. I could have a healthy and full memory. There isn't enough research in the world to tell me that what I'm feeling is normal. My real problem is that I know I don't want to be who I was, but I can't trust that I'll be better."Connor Murphy just wants to know who he was, who he used to be, the him, before. The only problem is that nobody really knows.





	there is no before

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Come Back" from Dogfight the Musical

Connor is drenched in the woman's blood. Connor is the one who put it there. Connor is just doing his job. She still looks scared. Connor reaches down and closes her eyes. Connor walks out, and everything fades to black.

~

Connor is standing on a street corner. He's wearing a blue trench coat, and holding an umbrella over his head. His other hand is in his pockets finger curled around the trigger of a gun with a silencer on it. The door to the bar across the street opens and a woman stumbles out. Connor does not know her. But he pulls the gun from his pocket and he fires. Connor does not miss. Connor walks away, rain camouflaging him long before anyone finds her body.

~

Connor is standing on a balcony. There's a glass of something in his hand, a mission clear in his head. A man joins him on the balcony, holding a similar glass, and smiles at Connor. Connor is acting. Connor smiles back. Connor lets him kiss him, kisses him back. The man's eyes widen as Connor twists a knife into his spine, but only a small noise comes out. Connor pulls the knife out before letting the man tumble off the balcony and into traffic, below.

~

Connor always wakes up in the same bed. He doesn't know who he is until they tell him. A new identity, a new mission, a blank slate, a useful little mind trick. He sits up, notes his long hair, his dry throat, and the first thing he always does is ask for water. They hand him a glass and new file. And he gets to work. It's the same routine. Connor doesn't how long he's been living it, and that's the only problem. Well, not the only problem.

~

Connor seduces and follows. He learns people, learns their schedules and their habits and their pet peeves and their annoying tics. He learns everything about them. He is their most efficient agent. He is quick and elusive and never gets caught. He is the best they have. He is never distracted, never so human, because he is new every time they take him out for a new deal. He rakes in the money. And he is so obedient. He kills without thinking, fucks who he needs to, smiles and charms and murders and disappears. He is their greatest achievement.

~

Until. Well, until he _is_ human again. Every time they refresh him, make him new again, start over for a new mission, his emotions and feelings are pushed to the side, for the sake of the mission. If he's distracted by them, he isn't the agent they need. On one of his missions, he is there to track, get information from, and kill Dana Perry, he meets Evan Hansen, a bystander. Evan is at the coffee shop at the same time that Connor is there to track Dana. And Evan takes notice of him. And Connor is unnerved.

~

Evan is different from the other people that Connor's met. At least, he can assume that, because he doesn't remember his other missions. He remembers the training he's received, remembers his mission, how he must not fail, but never anything else. It's all gone. Evan is soft and stutters and spills his coffee in his shoes, and Connor, restless to keep an eye on Dana, dismisses him. Evan doesn't back down. He continues on, and Connor agrees to meet him another time, a time when he is not so preoccupied.

~

Connor is not supposed to have a life other than the one he makes up for the mission. He's diverging, which is concerning to him. He doesn't believe that this has happened before but feeling something other than the brief satisfaction of a mission completed before the inky blackness and a reset is... _nice_. He has dinner with Evan. Or, rather, he gets hotdogs with Evan, at a vender by the river, and they walk around, and Connor lies through his teeth, and makes his excuses. He likes Evan. He really does.

~

There's the mission, and there's Evan. Connor knows the mission would be over much sooner if he just focused on the objective and just that, but Evan is so distracting and human and Connor feels drawn to him, the way he feels itches for cigarettes. Connor dawdles and stalls. Connor goes on dates with Evan and kisses Evan and tracks Dana and makes friends with Dana and blows her off in favour of a date with Evan and he's doing this all wrong, and-

~

And he kills her, and he runs, all the information he needs in tow.

~

Connor wakes up in a bed, but it's wrong, it's the wrong bed, _no, wait, what?_ There's something attached to his arm. Connor blinks blearily, but his vision is blurred and it's scaring him. He's scared. His heart is beating too fast in his chest.

There's a rhythmic beeping in his ear and he knows it must be a heart monitor or something but it's scaring him. He doesn't know where he is and he's scared and he can't remember anything and he's _so goddamn scared._

There are frantic voices around him and footsteps and hands on him and someone telling him to breathe, to just count with them, _please, Connor just breathe with me, can you do that?_

He thinks they maybe put something in his IV or the lady telling him to breathe is actually helping him, but he slowly returns to calmness. His vision is clearer now. Tears drying on his face give him the answer to that. The nurse is blonde, but not pale blonde, the yellow kind of blonde that reminds him of sunshine in children's drawings, and flowers.

She smiles at him, and then she's gone.

~

"Where did you go?"

"I went to see my son. He was in a car crash, too, Connor."

"Is he okay?"

"He is, Connor."

"You said 'too', didn't you? What happened to me?"

"You were in a car accident, you're lucky to be alive. You suffered a severe concussion and have amnesia. We have contacted your family, and they are going to come and collect you so that they can care for you in your recovery, as there is no one else where you live who can help you."

"My family?"

"Your family, Connor. They're coming to get you. You're going home."

~

 _Home._ Home seems like a very foreign concept. The person who comes to collect him from the hospital is a woman who says she is his mother, with red hair and a tight smile and tears in her eyes. She helps him into a cab, and they drive to his apartment to grab all the stuff he'll need. They lock the door behind him. Connor doesn't recognise the place. She helps him onto the plane, and walks him out to her car, at the airport, when they return to his home state.

Connor presses his face to the window like a kid, feeling the cold of the raindrops through the glass. There's soft pop music coming out of the speakers, and his mother - Cynthia, Heidi the yellow-haired nurse called her - hums along, jaggedly, like she doesn't quite know the song yet, or her voice is breaking. He feels so childish, curled up in his seat, watching his surroundings go by without really looking at them.

In the side mirror Connor sees his own face - pale and sunken, his lips hair hanging around his face, red roots already peeking up through the brown dye. He dyes his hair. He thinks he looks dumb as a redhead. What a thing to remember.

She turns up a driveway and rounds the car to help him out. He just feels so tired.

"How old am I?" He asks Cynthia as she leads him up to the door.

"You're twenty-six." Cynthia responds, voice cracking as if she can't believe that he doesn't remember.

Okay. Okay. His name is Connor. His mother's name is Cynthia. He dyes his hair brown because he thinks he looks dumb with red hair. He is twenty-six. He was in a car crash and is lucky to be alive. He has amnesia.

They enter the house, it's a lot bigger than Connor expected, but then he realises that he must have grown up here.

There are pictures hung in the entryway. Pictures of Cynthia and a light-haired man, pictures of children, both red headed and beaming with gaps in their teeth and clovers clutched in their fists. Connor assumes the little boy is him. He points to the little girl.

"Who's that?" Connor asks Cynthia.

"What the _fuck."_ Says a new voice and Connor turns slowly, seeing a girl on the stairs. She's staring at him. She has blue eyes and a frown on her face. Her hair is streaked and bleached and coloured and there is a ring on her finger. She is staring at him like her world is falling, tumbling, crashing down around her.

"Zoe." Cynthia breathes, sounding a little relieved. "Your brother is home."

"I can see that." Zoe - his sister - replies, stiffly. She walks down the stairs, quickly, and walks up to them, a little too close for Connor's comfort. "Why is he here? I thought he wasn't coming home for Christmas this year. He said so, anyway."

Connor looks around and registers the decorations, "It's Christmas?"

"Why is he looking at me like that?" Zoe demands, sounding near-hysterical. Connor doesn't want her to sound like that. It's distressing. "Is he the reason you rushed out to Chicago? Did you go to get him because he couldn't be bothered getting on a plane on his own?"

"Zoe, your brother was in a car accident." Cynthia hisses, clutching at Connor's arm. Zoe's face goes blank. "He _nearly died._ He has amnesia. He's home for the holiday, and also for his recovery. Since you're here, you can help us remind him about what he's forgotten."

Zoe looks at Connor and Connor blinks at her, trying to remember anything about her. She looks about his age, maybe a little younger. Definitely healthier. Definitely happier.

"Fine." Her gaze is a little softer than before, as if she's trying to figure out what things she should tell him. He can already see her locking things away. "How much does he remember?"

"He didn't even remember my name until the nurse told him." Cynthia says, sounding pained and Zoe winces.

"Fuck." Zoe says, glancing at him. "What about Sabrina?" The name is foreign. Even his family's names were familiar, but this Sabrina does not ring any bells.

"They broke up right before the crash." Broke up. Sabrina must have been Connor's girlfriend. "She hasn't answered my calls or my texts. I think she's going to block me soon."

"Fuck." She repeats.

"Who's Sabrina?" Connor questions, but is cut off by another presence.

"Zo?" Says someone from the stairs and Zoe turns, gracefully, to the person.

"S'okay, Lana." She calls, holding up a hand. "It's just Connor."

"Really?" The girl hurries down the stairs and into the entryway. "This is Connor?"

He nods at her. There are speckles of lightness on her lips. She's wearing glasses. Her hair is braided and pulled back in a ponytail. There's a ring on her finger too. Her shirt is flowy, but even Connor can see the bump. "Hello." Connor says. Alana looks delighted.

"Oh, it's so nice to meet you." Alana gushes, shaking his hand, enthusiastically. "I didn't think you'd ever leave Chicago, and since you missed the wedding-"

"'Lana, he was in a car crash." Zoe says, gently, and puts a hand on Alana's shoulder. "He doesn't remember anything."

Alana's face falls. "Oh _dear."_ She looks kind of devastated. Connor wants to tell her it's okay, that if his memories never come back she can get to know the new him. But he doesn't. He just watches it all play out. He wants to know how everyone plays before he even thinks about starting to make moves. That's how you lose in chess.

"Connor, this is my wife, Alana." Zoe introduces. The way she says _wife_ is very defensive, as if the him before hadn't known that she liked girls, or maybe he had and was a huge homophobe. "We've been married for three years."

"Lovely to meet you." Connor says, and Alana beams. She's really lovely, Connor's glad that she makes his sister happy. But his head hurts. And he feels numb. And he's so goddamn tired. "Um, sorry, but I'm really tired."

"That's okay, dear." Cynthia says. "You go to bed and I'll bring you some food, and then tomorrow we'll start on helping you remember."

~

Connor sits in bed and looks around the room. It's neglected and dusty, but in a state of disarray that suggests he hadn't bothered cleaning it when he last left and nobody else had felt the need, either. He pulls his computer out of the small bag of things he grabbed from his place in Chicago before they left.

“Define amnesia" Connor types into Google, thanking god or whoever was up there that the him before hadn't put a passcode on his computer.

Amnesia. Noun. A partial or total loss of memory.

The nurses said the memories could come back, but there was a good chance that he'd never regain his memory. If the conversation in the entryway was anything to go by, this was going to be hell.

The next Google search is "amnesia support groups?" and he stumbles over online forums for people who have amnesia or have loved ones with amnesia. He goes into one and clicks join.

**Connor747**

_I don't even know why I'm doing this,_ he types, _but I guess I just want some kind of back up here. A couple days ago, I was in a car crash that could have killed me, but didn't. When I woke up, in hospital, I couldn't even remember my own name. I had to ask my mother how old I was. Now I'm home with my mother and sister and my sisters wife, and I still don't know all that much. Tomorrow, they're gonna try and restore some memories in me, but I'm not sure if it'll really work, or if I'll convince myself that I remember it. I guess what I'm asking here is does it get better? I can't read anyone, and they all seem angry at me, and I think my sister hates me. I don't know what to do._

Connor posts it.

Okay. _Okay._ His name is Connor. He is twenty-six years old. His mother is named Cynthia, and his sister is named Zoe. Zoe is married to a girl named Alana, and Alana is pregnant even though Zoe doesn't think anyone knows. Connor dyes his hair brown because he thinks red looks dumb on him. Connor doesn't have a passcode on his laptop because he's a dumbass. He was dating someone called Sabrina, but they broke up not that long ago. Connor was in a car crash and is lucky to be alive. Connor has severe amnesia.

~

The next day, Connor wakes up at six. Or so it says on his dusty alarm clock with the green numbers. He stares at the ceiling that is covered in plaster that has been torn away by angry hands. There is a singular glow star, right above his head, on the ceiling, so Connor can assume that there used to be many, and he just got rid of all the others. He finds himself staring at it.

His forearms itch a lot, which makes no sense to Connor, until he's scratching them for the fourth time in an hour and he looks down and fully registers the scars. Horizontal, puckered scars. They're angry and pink when he looks down at them. So this was who he was, before.

Connor kind of wants to search the room, do a rundown of everything in it, try and find who he was without pictures and home videos and word of mouth. Just him in his bedroom, searching for journals and annotated books and something. But he can't make himself move. He's just lying there, in his bed, staring at the single star on the ceiling that barely even glows anymore.

Connor stays in bed as long as he can, but then the smell of bacon tempts him down the stairs. They creak under his feet, which is something he hadn't noticed last night, when Alana and Zoe came rushing down them to greet him. Connor follows the smell through a bunch of doorways until he finally finds the source, in the kitchen. There, at the stove, is the light haired man from the family photos in the entryway.

This is the man who he assumes is his father.

Connor clears his throat and the man jumps, turning around. He looks startled to see him, at first, and then relaxes. "Connor," he says.

"Yes." Connor replies. "Um, good morning."

The man scans him, with a blank expression, and then turns the stove off. "Sit down." He gestures to the bar stools at the island bench, the seats are cold against his thighs. He hadn't been bothered getting changed before bed, last night, just stripped out of his jeans and gone to sleep. "Cynthia tells me you have severe amnesia."

"Yes." Connor says. There's really not much more to say.

The man looks a little more conflicted at this, and continues, "Do you know who I am?"

"I'm assuming that you're my dad." Connor replies and then quickly adds, "Correct me if I'm wrong."

"You're not." He looks pleased with the answer, but still a little pained. "I am your father. My name is Larry."

Connor considers this, briefly, picking up an apple, out of the fruit bowl. "Larry what?" He asks, genuinely curious. He hasn't heard a surname out of any of them, not even the nurses at the hospital.

"Larry Murphy." Now, Larry looks a little hurt. Connor feels bad. It must be hard for him. His own son, who appears to have known the universe (if his family's passive aggressiveness towards him is anything to go by) now doesn't even know his name. "That's your last name too. James Connor Murphy. You go by Connor, though. I don't know if that's still your name or if you legally changed it but the name on your birth certificate is James Connor Murphy, so we'll just start there."

Connor puts the apple back, suddenly not hungry, and runs his nails over the countertop. It's cooler than the seat. It's white. The whole kitchen is white and black. It didn't used to look that way, Connor thinks. It used to be yellow, when he was a kid. But renovations and a changing of the times left sunshine yellow behind in the bin. He shakes the memory away, still smelling pancakes that aren't there. "Can I ask a question?"

Larry watches his fingers move. He seems so set in not looking directly at Connor. Connor thinks he knows why. Thinks that's alright. It's alright if Larry doesn't want to look at him and see the absence of his son, the absence of who he used to be. The absence of the him before. "I think there'll be a lot of that, so sure." Larry replies, tone set. He sounds tired.

Connor swallows at a lump developing in his throat, and tries not to make the crack in his voice so noticeable. "What did I do wrong?" He asks, and watches something dawn on Larry. "Because you're really stiff, and Cynthia's emotional, and I'm pretty sure that Zoe hates me. So if you could fill me in about what I did, that'd be great."

"It's..." Larry bites his lip and taps at the countertop. It's obvious that there's not a delicate way to put what he wants to say. "It's less about what you did and more about what you didn't have."

Connor nearly laughs at how vague that is. "What didn't I have?"

"Serotonin. Oxytocin. Among other things."

"I had depression?"

"How is it that you know the chemical that gives you happiness, but you don't know your own name?" Larry muses.

"My brain is fucked up." Connor says, through humourless laughter. Suddenly, Larry cracks a grin, and Connor can see so much pain in it that he stops short.

"That is the most you've sounded like yourself since you stepped into this kitchen." Larry says to him, and then turns back to the stove. Connor gets up and goes back to his room, bacon be damned. He doesn't like this him before. He really doesn't.

~

Connor spends most of the day with Cynthia and Alana, scanning photo albums and watching home videos, pointing him out, and telling him stories.

The more Connor finds out about himself, the more he doesn't like the him before. The him before was fine, it seems, until middle school, and then he started falling apart in mental illness and loneliness and so much more. He doesn't want to become a carbon copy of the him before. He wants to try something new.

Be someone new. Someone better.

Cynthia doesn't like to linger on more recent events, preferring toddler years and kindergarten and birthday parties. Connor sees through her. He wants to know what exactly he did that makes her scared. He lets his glass of water hit the table too hard, once, and watches her jump. Connor just wants to know why his mother is scared of him.

Connor thinks he hears Zoe mumble what a shit Christmas Eve it is.

~

Connor checks back at the amnesia support site and finds a reply on his post. It's from a user called KleinmanFineman.

**KleinmanFineman**

_The first few months are really hard, and some people have a lot of trouble even years later. But as for your question, yes, it does get better. Your family will probably want you to go back to being the way you were, but that's really not how it works. It may be that you find that you don't like yourself, and that you choose to change, or that maybe you want something new. I'm not a survivor myself, but my sister is, and a friend of mine was in a similar accident to you, recently, and he's not taking the recovery well. Turns out his anxiety disorder didn't disappear with the rest of his memories. Take it easy. Tell them if it's too much. If you have any more questions, and I'm pretty sure you will, just ask._

Connor closes the laptop. He didn't know that amnesia was so common. He didn't know that a lot of people had to relearn themselves.

Maybe that would make it easier.

~

It's nearly midnight when Connor sneaks down into the kitchen to make himself some tea, wrapped in a quilt. He has real trouble with that. There's an entire cabinet filled with different teas. And they're all fancy and he doesn't know what kind he likes. He eventually settles on just plain black tea and digs through the pantry for something to snack on while waiting for it to brew.

Connor steals a few chocolate orange biscuits, scarfing them down quickly, so as not to get caught, and is about to head back upstairs with his tea when he sees Zoe sitting on the railing of the porch.

He takes his tea out with him to go and sit by her. She's smoking a cigarette. She barely acknowledges him.

"You know," Connor says, fiddling with the end of the teabag, "I hear smoking can give you lung cancer."

"Jokes on you, then," Zoe whispers, and takes a long drag. "Because I picked it up from you."

"Zoe," Connor says, holding his mug of tea flat against his palms. It burns, but that's better than the numbness he's felt since he woke up in hospital.

Zoe looks at him, exhaling a puff of smoke as she replies, "Yeah?"

"Can I ask you a question?" The end of her cigarette burns orange for a second until she stops dragging at it. Connor remembers being vaguely mesmerised by that. He rips his eyes away.

"I think that's what you'll be doing for the next few years unless your memories magically return to you." She says, not unfairly, after she's finished with that lungful of smoke.

"I'll take that as a yes." Connor says. She snorts in response.

"You do you." Zoe says.

He swallows, and looks up at the sky, watching his breath come out, visibly. He doesn't know why he has such trouble with asking this question. Why does emotion try to drown him when he asks, "Why do you hate me?"

"That's a loaded question." She laughs, and Connor notes how emotionless the laugh is. She far from happy. And Connor made her that way. "Why do I hate you, James Connor Murphy?"

"Yes." He says, numbly, watching her ash the cigarette and stub it out on the railing below them.

"Well, let's start easy. You made my life a living hell from age thirteen to twenty. You ran away twice, once brought home by the police, the second time dragged home by dad. Both times you were high. You used to regularly steal money from mine or mom's purse to buy weed. You tried to kill yourself twice, and both times left me to find you, and threatened to kill yourself on countless more occasions. One time, you were so high, and so paranoid, that you nearly broke down my door, screaming at the top of your lungs that you were going to kill me. You verbally abused me, constantly, and stole from me." Her voice slowly rises in volume, angrier and angrier. Connor sees now the anger that she held beneath the surface for propriety's sake, for the sake of their mother, and Alana. But she's not done.

"Then you graduated and left for five and a half years. Basically no contact, complete radio silence, apart from the occasional email. You know, I sent you a save the date for my wedding and a personal invite, and you never responded? You didn't show up to my wedding, and you never gave me a reason why! And now I'll never know why, unless you magically remember everything! I was willing to forgive you, and you ruined any hope I had that you wanted to be forgiven, that you wanted to apologise! That you wanted to try to be better and start over! You destroyed the only successful relationship you've ever had, and then crashed your car into a bridge! You could've died!"

Connor doesn't mean to stare, but he can't help it. Her shoulders are shaking. She's gripping the railing with hands that are tight and white-knuckled. Zoe sucks in a deep breath, looking down at the grass. "And I'm still not sure if I would've preferred that over this." He barely hears the whisper, but after a few seconds of working out what she said, it dawns on him.

Connor stares at her as she succumbs to her tears. She's crying. She's crying because of him. Because of who he was and what he did and the fact that there's no way for him to make amends for any of it, anymore, because it'll never been sincere, now.

Zoe isn't crying for him. Connor accepts that as numbly as he accepts that even if she was, he wouldn't deserve it.

He sets his tea aside, meekly, and shuffles closer to her. Zoe shows no sign that she notices this. He's not even sure if she'll want him this close, after everything she just said, he's pretty sure she doesn't, but he's got to try. Connor wraps an arm, hesitantly, around her shoulders and feels her still.

His breath comes out in a rush, as he tries to get the words out before she can stop him. "I'll never be able to make up for any of that, and trust me when I say that I want to," Connor says, "but I'm going to try and be better. And you have to know that who I am right now, as hollow as it may seem, is sorry that I put you through all of that. No one deserves any of that, especially you."

Zoe turns in his arms, and Connor braces himself for her to tell him to let her go and to fuck off. She looks up, through her hair, eyes shining. She looks so small, that Connor gets a flash of a memory, of Zoe, younger and smaller, and looking up at him in the same way, and begging him for a turn at the controls of a remote control airplane toy. The flash is gone as quickly as it came.

He nearly falls off the railing when Zoe throws her arms around him and begins to sob into his shoulder. He's frozen for a second, the feeling of this intimacy so foreign after the amnesia. But then he hugs her back, just as fiercely, a hand to the back of her head in what he hopes is a soothing manner.

Connor holds her for as long as he can before the position he's sitting in begins to make him ache.

"I think we should go inside." He murmurs. "We're gonna get hypothermia out here if we stay out much longer, and I don't think your wife would appreciate that, very much."

Zoe sniffles and pulls away, nodding. "You're right-" Connor freezes up, the minute she cuts off, expecting the worst from her silence, an impulse from the him before, he assumes.

"Connor." She hisses, tugging on his sleeve. "Look. It's snowing!"

He turns and face the back heard and sees that she's right. It's beginning to snow. "Wow."

They get off the railing and watch the snowing as it gets heavier. Their shoulders press against each other.

"This is the first time you've seen snow, isn't it." Zoe whispers.

Connor nods. "Yeah."

She gives a short laugh. "Baby's first snow."

~

They head inside (Connor leaves his mug of tea outside, and only remembers when he sees it out the window the next day) and Connor says, "You didn't happen to get a video of the wedding or anything, did you?"

Zoe gives him an incredulous look. "You can't be seriously saying you want to stay up with me and watch my wedding right now, can you?"

"That's exactly what I'm telling you." Connor replies, and Zoe grins at him, for the first time. She tugs him into the living room and goes rummaging through the pile of VCR's on the DVD shelf.

"Dad insisted on bringing out the camera, so this is full on _Love, Actually_ videoing." She comments as she emerges with a tape and shuffles over to the VCR player on her knees. Her pyjama pants scrape at the carpet. Connor tries not to wince too obviously.

"What does that mean?" He asks, and goes into the pantry, looking for the microwaveable popcorn packets he saw earlier that day.

"Oh, fuck." Zoe laughs and when Connor retrieves the popcorn, he looks over at her, seeing an unreadable look on her face. "It's a movie and it's iconic. After we watch my wedding video, I'm breaking out the popcorn and we're watching _Love, Actually."_

~

"What are you drinking?" Connor asks, sitting on the floor. "In the video, I mean."

"Blackberry vodka." Zoe replies, and there's this equally as incredulous tone in her voice. "I know, it's ridiculous. Apparently it's a family tradition, and dad kinda forced it on me." She stares at the screen for a few seconds, and then adds, "I think it was started by one of the alcoholics in our family. I was just humouring him, really."

Connor purses his lips and processes this, blocking out his father's commentary behind the camera. "Okay, next question."

"Shoot." She drawls and tosses a piece of popcorn in the air, catching it in her mouth by throwing herself onto the couch, entirely.

"Why are you walking up and down the stairs while drinking it?" Zoe actually laughs, at that, and nearly knocks the popcorn bowl off the couch. Connor puts it on the floor and stuffs a handful in his mouth.

"I realised I was gonna be walking up and down stairs that day, and I'd never done that in a long dress before, so I spent like an hour practicing." The Zoe on screen, the one holding a shot glass in one hand and a handful of skirt in the other laughs at something Larry said, behind the camera. "My legs were dead by the end of the day."

"Not even surprised." Connor says, and points at the screen. "You look dead on your feet, right there."

"Fuck you, I was radiant." Zoe tosses a piece of popcorn at his head, sitting up, and slinging her legs over his shoulders.

The physical contact is a little jarring, but Connor gets over it, quickly. "I concur. Simply gorgeous."

"Are you being sarcastic?" Zoe asks, and winds a lock of hair around her index finger. She's getting so close that he'd assume she was drunk, if he didn't know better.

"Too early?" He replies, ready to change his attitude if he's falling into the easy sibling banter too quickly. He's worried he'll just turn into the him before, again.

"No, I'm glad. You sound more like yourself." She sighs, slumping against the back of the sofa. "I wish you had come to the wedding. Even if it was...how do you keep referring to yourself? The you before? I would have even wanted him there."

"I'm sorry." Connor says, honestly. "But, think of it this way; if you ever renew your vows, I'll definitely be there, even if Larry has to drag me."

"Aw." Zoe says, and then pushes him onto his side with her foot, pressing her foot into his ribs. His cheek presses against the carpet. Connor lets her do it, the TV still in full sight.

~

"Did Cynthia just ask you which dress she should wear?" Connor cries.

"Yep." Zoe sighs. It's now three in the morning. "That was the thing I panicked most about. Mom decided to wait to last minute to pick which dress to wear."

"She waited until you guys were at the venue." Connor continues, still a little shocked. "Is she usually that indecisive?"

"No."

"Geez."

"Zo?" Says a voice from the doorway and they both jump in fright, turning to see Alana frowning and squinting at them from the dark.

"'Lana." Zoe sighs in relief. "What are you doing up?"

"I woke up and you weren't there." Alana mumbles, and leans on the doorway.

"I got restless." Zoe replies. She bites her lip and gives her wife a quick up-down. It still kind of shocks Connor that he has a little sister and she's married. "You feeling okay?"

"Yeah." Alana nods, giving Zoe a soft smile that Connor can imagine is not for his eyes. "What are you watching?"

"The wedding video, actually. With sarcastic commentary from yours truly and Mr. Forgetful, over here." Zoe punctuates the end of the sentence by jerking her thumb at Connor.

"I'm not sure I like that nickname." Connor comments, absently, eating a single popcorn kernel.

"We'll figure something more permanent out. Don't worry your pretty little head about it." Zoe teases and pats his head, condescendingly. He scowls at her. It's almost like magic how easily they fall into this banter. Connor hopes that this isn't what it was like last time. He'd hate for the magic to just be a reflection of the him before.

"D'you mind if I join you guys?" Alana asks, shuffling in the doorway, dressing gown wrapped tight around her.

"Not even a bit. Come on, you can wedge yourself between us." Zoe lifts up the fleece blanket draped over them and shuffles over a hit as Alana sets herself down between them on the couch, immediately curling into her wife. "It's ridiculously warm."

There's silence for a while as more familial shenanigans take place on screen, and then Connor takes a deep breath and says, "So, when is the baby due?"

"What?" Zoe cries, and begins to choke on popcorn.

"The baby." Connor repeats and Alana smacks Zoe on the back until she stops coughing, giggling a little, to herself, but looking a little drawn.

"Holy fuck, how did you figure it out?" Zoe asks, licking her lips.

Connor shrugs, "You weren't exactly subtle about it, and she's kinda obvious."

"Oh my god." Zoe says and rubs her face. She leaves them there, as if afraid looking at him will make this moment worse. "You can't tell mom."

"My lips are sealed." He pauses. "Why haven't you told them?"

"We're not ready to." Alana says, but it comes out in a hurry.

"Well,” the word kind of sticks in his throat. Who is he to be telling his sister - the sister who is barely his sister at all - what to do? Who is he to dictate any part of their lives? Connor swallows at a lump in his throat. “I'm not exactly the best person to be giving advice here, but you should tell them before you leave.” A silence. Zoe laughs on the screen, and he lets his eyes linger on her past self, spinning around in her wedding dress and looking practically euphoric. “After all, it is Christmas."

~

"Who's Sabrina?" It’s well into the wedding video now, and Alana is asleep, wedged between them, pressed up against Zoe's side. Zoe turns to look at Connor, frowning,

"Your girlfriend. Or, rather, your ex." She lets out a heavy sigh. "According to mom, you guys had a huge fight and broke up right before your crash."

They turn back to the video. Connor can't focus. He's too stuck on the knowledge that someone had cared for him in Chicago before his accident. More questions swirl around in his head. A lump forms in his throat. "Zoe?"

"Yes?" She sounds tired. It is nearly four in the morning.

"Do you think she knows?" Connor's voice cracks as he asks the question.

Zoe seems to register this. She turns to look at him, again, over Alana's head. "That you had an accident?"

"Yeah." Connor can't stop the tears. He's so confused, so lost, so _scared._ What if she never knew? What if she showed up to his apartment only a few hours after he left and couldn't find him? What if she was texting and calling him, and he wasn't picking up because he lost his phone in the accident?

"I don't know." Zoe tells him, in the most raw voice he's heard her use.

"Do you think she'd care?" She shakes her head again.

"I don't know."

~

"If you're not watching the movie, I'd prefer if you turned it off." Says someone over Connor’s shoulder, and he jolts awake, immediately faced by the characters on screen having sex. He averts his eyes and sees Zoe stirring from where she’s slumped against Alana.

"Dad!" Zoe cries and grabs the remote control, pressing pause.

"That's not better, Zo." Alana grumbles, cheeks darkening in embarrassment, when Zoe manages to pause the movie at the exact right time to have a freeze frame of the woman’s breasts.

"I actually think that's worse." Connor admits and turns to looking over the top of the couch, at Larry, who looks vaguely uncomfortable and barely awake. Connor gives him a cheery grin and a wave. “Morning, dad.”

~

Another day, another attempt with Cynthia in the living room.

Everyone's been given gifts, even Connor, despite his abrupt arrival and distinct lack of memory. Everyone pitched in to get him a gift card to a local bookstore. Of course, they couldn't get through most of the day without his mother dragging out another scrapbook.

According to Zoe, she went through a scrapbooking phase.

"And this is Jared, do you remember him?” Cynthia says, pointing to a blurry figure in a kindergarten photo, all big glasses and rounded cheeks. She frowns. “You weren't _friends,_ per se, but you were _friend-ly."_

"So he was an asshole to me but you still invited him around?" Connor asks, dryly, and Larry chokes on his drink.

Cynthia gives her husband an affectionate scowl, almost _don't encourage him,_ and puts down the scrapbook, sighing. "That's one way of putting it."

"Cynthia - er - mom,” just further proof he's still adjusting, and Cynthia frowns, just a bit, “if you're gonna take the time to try and remind me of people and stuff, there's no point in lying to me."

"I'm sorry, Con.” She says, honestly. “It's just you were really miserable by the end, and I don't want you to feel like that again."

“I'm feeling fine.” Connor insists.

She brightens, picking the scrapbook up, again. “Well, what about Evan Hansen?”

"Mom, you in here?" Zoe asks, entering the room, Alana’s hand in hers.

"Yeah, sweetheart.” Cynthia replies, easily, twisting to look over her shoulder at her daughter and her wife. “What's happening?"

"Dad, you’re here too.” Zoe says, smiling a bit, eyes flickering over to Connor for a minute. A memory flashes in his mind, the way she'd raised her finger to her lips, grinning as he distracted their father so Zoe could steal a bottle of wine when they were fifteen. There's the same look of apprehension and excitement in her eyes, now. “Awesome."

"You're freaking me out,” Cynthia says, “are you okay?"

"I'm fine, mom.” She assures their parents, and then looks to Alana with all the love in her eyes, taking her wife’s hand. “We just...we have an announcement."

Alana breathes in deeply, keeping eye contact with Zoe, before turning to the other assembled Murphy’s. "I'm pregnant." She says in a rush.

Larry sighs and says, "Oh, _finally."_

"Larry!" Cynthia cries, and whacks his arm with the back of her hand, lightly.

"What?” He says, looking like he's about to laugh. “It took them long enough!"

"At least act surprised!" She responds, still sounding exasperated, but in a good way. Connor muffles a snort with his hand.

Zoe looks back and forth between them with a dumbstruck look on her face, "You _knew?"_

"You two aren't exactly subtle." Larry informs them, with a sympathetic smile, before getting up and hugging both girls. Cynthia does the same, adding kisses to their cheeks and murmuring things to them, before bustling into the kitchen with her husband in tow.

"Ooh, Larry, did you hear that the Hansen's are back in town?” She says, loudly, from the next room. “They brought Jared with them."

"As in Jared the techie, with the glasses?" Larry asks, just as loudly.

"Yes."

Alana and Zoe sit down on the couch beside him, heavily, looking relieved to be free of the secret that was apparently not as secret as they thought. The parents continue their conversation. "I thought he moved to Chicago."

"He did, but apparently Evan had an accident, earlier this month, and they're moving back into town for his recovery." Cynthia says, and there's a sound like a champagne bottle being opened.

"So much of that, lately.” Larry murmurs as they renter with four champagne glasses, one bottle of champagne, and a bottle of apple juice. Connor puts everything out of his mind, besides celebrating Alana and Zoe.

~

 **KleinmanFineman** _5 Days Ago_

_My best friend was in a car accident earlier this month, while he was staying with me in Chicago. He is suffering from severe retrograde amnesia, meaning that he doesn't remember pretty much anything, aside from reading, writing, talking, and most gross motor/cognitive skills. His mother is moving him back home, for the time being, and I'm going with them, as my friend also has a severe anxiety disorder, and I'm one of the only permanent figures in his life, plus I have experience, since my little sister was in an accident when she was younger that left her with amnesia._  
_My friend becomes panicked if one of us isn't with him, to the extent of refusing to use the bathroom, as it means being alone. It's getting very difficult. On the bright side, he seems to retain knowledge of people, places, and things, easily, and tells us that he sometimes gets flashes of memory that don't make sense, but usually link to who he's with and/or his surroundings._ _The trouble really is his anxiety, and that his progress is slow-going. Can anyone relate? Any tips? Thanks._

Alana opens the sliding door and slides out onto the porch. She's holding two mugs, closing the door with her elbow.

"Hey, Conman." She says, taking a seat on the chair beside him, setting the mugs down on the table between the chairs.

Connor peers at her over the top of his laptop. "I think I preferred 'Mr. Forgetful'."

"How about we trash nicknames altogether and I just call you Connor?" Alana suggests, curling her feet up under her and picking up a mug.

"I think I like that idea." Connor agrees, and then lowers his gaze to the screen again. The post is honest and pleading, but obviously well-researched. Words stand out to him that are obviously medical terms this person has heard and knows how to use.

Connor feels bad. This boy whose predicament is so similar to his own is struggling a lot more than himself. Connor wants to trade with the stranger, give him some easier past to unfold, some smoother sailing. But he can't.

"You look worried." Alana notes between sips of what he's assuming is hot chocolate. "What are you reading?"

"Amnesia support group forums." Connor replies, lowering the screen and reaching across the table for the extra mug. There's a marshmallow floating in it. "Kinda humbling when I realise that a lot of people have it way worse than I do."

Alana frowns and takes the laptop from him. "Confiscating this until you realise that just because your recovery is going relatively smoothly, that that's no reason to compare your pain with other people who are in different situations to you. There are so many variables you're not considering by just punishing yourself."

He goes to argue but she gives him a pointed look and Connor can't help but wonder if she was ever on the debate team in high school.

“Drink your hot chocolate.” She says, softly, and Connor obeys.

~

**Connor747**

_I keep telling myself that it could be much worse. But I also know that it could be much better. I could have a healthy and full memory. There isn't enough research in the world to tell me that what I'm feeling is normal. My father tells me that I was depressed and my sister tells me that I was the worst and my mother likes to insist that I was perfect the way I was, but she still jumps at every loud noise. The only person who's unbiased in my house is my sisters wife, and I never met her before my amnesia, so there's really nothing concrete I can trust her on._ _  
So, I guess, I'm at a stalemate. My real problem is that I know I don't want to be who I was but I can't trust that I'll be better. I'm not gonna end on a question because I don't have a question to end on. I just had no one to talk to about how goddamned scared I am that I'll end up the same and just make my family miserable._

~

Cynthia says it'll do him good if he starts doing some independent activities. She takes him out grocery shopping and when he continues to mope around the store, simultaneously intrigued and bored with everything on the shelves she shoves a twenty at him and tells him to go get himself some coffee from the store across the street.

Connor tries to argue that he doesn't even know what he likes in his coffee but she forces him out.

Connor huffs but crosses the road, into the store, and orders a black coffee. Start simple, he thinks to himself. The guy standing off to the side, who ordered before him is murmuring over a phone to someone, looking exhausted and like he just wants to go to bed.

Connor inches closer, pretending to look at pamphlets and instead eavesdropping.

"No, Ev, listen...you're not listening...Ev, I'll be home in five minutes. Yes...yes I know...Heidi will probably be back before me. I know...I know...Ev, I'm sorry." The guy sighs. Connor wonders if the person on the other end of the line - Ev - is the reason this guy looks so tired. "Yes, I know, I won't...you're not listening to me, Ev! What did we say? You're not gonna improve if you don't listen to us. Ev, please. Yes, I promise. I promise...yes. I love you too. Okay. Bye. Yes, I promise. Five minutes, at most."

"Jared?" The barista calls out, startling both Connor and the guy on the phone. The guy on the phone hangs up and goes to collect his coffee. "Connor?"

Connor stumbles over to the counter, thanking the barista, and as he turns to grab a handful of sugar packets, knocks the guy on the phone - Jared, the barista had said - over.

Both their coffees splatter on the ground.

Jared swears and Connor jumps back, dropping the sugar packets in the steaming hot puddle collecting on the floor.

Connor can’t help but stare down at it dumbly, can’t move himself to help, even as he watches a barista dive in with a cloth, and Jared dumping napkins upon napkins on the problem.

Finally, he shakes off his stupor in time to be able to help with nothing. The puddle is gone, and the barista is picking sodden napkins off the floor and throwing them into the nearest bin, and Jared is staring at him with wide eyes.

“You really haven’t changed. Apart from the hair of course.”

Of course. Somewhere in his missing memory, he stopped dying his hair, and now all of the brown was cut out. Any family friends he’s come across with his mom have commented how much he looks like his mom like this.

“I’m sorry-“

Jared scoffs. “About the coffee, or about the staring instead of helping?”

“No, about not remembering you-“

And Jared laughs. Loudly and unashamedly, and every person in the cafe is looking at them with unwavering judgement, and Connor squirms under their gazes.

“Of course you don’t remember me. You never changed did you, still don’t care about anyone or anything more than yourself and your weed, fuck man-“

Connor hates hearing about the him before, and has to almost shout to get Jared to stop. “No, sorry, I’m- look, I’m going through a tough time, I was in a car accident, I have amnesia. I really don’t remember you.”

And Jared is silent. A deep dark part of himself want to laugh. Thinks Jared hasn’t ever been this silent before. Thinks he should take a picture to commemorate the occasion.

And as soon as the thought comes to him, the place it came from sinks deeper into him, an unreadable place.

“I can’t believe that my life has become a refuge for amnesiacs.”

“So you knew me- before the accident, I mean?”

Jared looks conflicted. “We went to high school together, we hung out together a few times, but we weren’t exactly on good terms.”

And then Connor remembers him from the photo Cynthia- mom showed him. “Oh, my god, you’re Jared!” Jared smiles like he thinks he’s had a breakthrough, so Connor shakes his head. “My mom has been showing me pictures, we were going through one of my old yearbooks.”

“That must have been fun,” Jared comments, “considering that all of your school photos ever looked like mugshots.”

Connor can’t help but snort at this. “You know, I said the same thing when I saw them, but my mom said I looked put out.”

“Your mom did make a habit of trying to being terribly optimistic.”

“It’s carried over to this, I have to tell you, and it’s wearing on me. Sometimes, a bit of pessimism is needed. Or even realism. She wants me to heal much faster than I am.”

Jared shakes his head. “That sucks, man. Evan, he went to school with us, he was in a car accident as well, and, well, he’s in the same position as you. Can’t remember a thing. But you- oh, of course you don’t remember. He’s really upset about it.”

“Evan Hansen? He was one of the other people my mom pointed out in a scrapbook.”

“I don't think you guys ever interacted. Evan’s never been a social kind of guy. Speaking of, he’s probably worried sick about me, I’ve got to get going-“

“Your coffee-“ Connor protests.

“Doesn’t matter now. Gimme your phone, I’ll put my number in, we can talk another time. I might even introduce you to Evan.” Connor hands him his phone and nods, thinking that maybe putting two amnesiacs in one room might be a recipe for disaster, especially if Evan is as nervous as Jared says he is. Jared pushes his phone back into his hands. “Gotta run, but text me, yeah?”

Connor nods as Jared runs out the door. He looks up into the eyes of an obviously overtired barista. “Do you want a coffee? Because you’re blocking customers, and-“

“No, I’m leaving, I’m sorry.” And he rushes out the door.

~

Connor tears his room apart.

He finds stolen bottles of expired prescription medication in a shoebox under his bed. He finds razors in a jewellery box, a pencil case, and at the bottom of his sock drawer. He finds all the hidden boxes of cigarettes on the bookshelf and in his old backpack.

He throws it all away.

It feels like spring cleaning.

He won't give in to any of it. He'll get rid of all of it to get rid of the temptation.

He stares up at the star on his ceiling and goes searching again.

Spare coins and emergency money. A full piggy bank in the back of his closet, anything he can find. A wad of twenties shoved under a loose floorboard.

The next day he buys a new pack of glow stars and gives the rest of the money to Zoe as a late Christmas present. She refuses at first but then he reminds her how expensive babies are.

"Alana did budgeting when we were planning!" She says. "Besides, how much good is two hundred dollars gonna do me?"

"You never know." Connor says and she gives him a dubious look, but doesn't say anything more, taking the cash from his hand with a small smile quirking at the corner of her mouth.

~

He’s sitting on the steps of a hotel. At least, he thinks it’s a hotel. Everything he’s looking at is fuzzy, and he feels dizzy and exhausted, and that’s how he knows he’s been drugged. His lip is bleeding. Someone punched him. His pockets are empty. No phone, no wallet, nothing but the clothes on his back.

He doesn’t even recognise the street he’s sitting in. It’s too urban to be home. There are too many tall buildings. He’s in an unfamiliar city, without identification, without a way to call for help, having been drugged and punched, perhaps beaten up, on the steps of a hotel that he may or may not have been staying at.

He gets, unsteadily, to his feet, and wanders inside. No one stops his progress, no one even looks up at him. The world is too fuzzy to even read the clock on the wall. He takes the elevator up a couple of levels and stumbles along the hallway, on muscle memory, hoping he can find a room that has all his stuff in it.

The cleaning lady recognises him. She’s seen him coming and going for the last few days, and lets him into his room. Inside is a relatively clean room with a suitcase open on the bed. There are clothes scattered around. Even he can tell half of his stuff is gone. He doesn’t understand what’s happening. He slumps onto the floor, his back to the frame of the bed, and wonders what his name is.

And then the door opens again. Connor looks up.

~

He was too content. That’s what Connor puts it down to, when he wakes up, sweating through his t-shirt that night. His mind is flashing with images, images that he can't connect or recognise.

The dream preceding the flashing images that are already fading - that dream was much too vivid to be a dream. It has to be a memory. It has to be. Connor needs it to be a memory.

He’s ready to burst into confused tears, but something stops him. An image sticks. A boy, probably only a little younger than him, blonde hair, blue eyes, holding a disposable coffee cup that says _Evan_ on the side.

_Evan._

~

The next day, he's all irritable and scatter-brained, half-aware if his surroundings, half-focused on trying to put together the mystery of memories in his head. Alana’s staring at him, worriedly, across the breakfast table, and Zoe rolls her eyes a bit, as if on impulse.

“Hey, Connor, wanna tell us who your cereal murdered?” She asks, and he looks up so suddenly he almost gets vertigo.

“Uh,” he says, awkwardly, “sorry, just thinking.”

“About what?” Zoe pries, looking amused, but slightly concerned, tucking it away behind the amusement.

“I had a dream, last night.” Connor admits, and sighs, putting his spoon down. “Only it seemed too real to be a dream.”

“Maybe it's a memory.” Alana murmurs to herself, and then leans across the table to get closer to him. Her large eyes inspect him clinically before she leans back. Connor picks his spoon back up, pushing it through his soggy cereal in an attempt to feel less awkward in this interrogation. “Did the doctors say anything about your memories coming back?”

“I don't remember.” He's thinking too hard, especially on that image of Evan. More images have come when beckoned because of him, that boy with the coffee cup and the awkward smile, and he's trying to piece together where he can find him. Maybe Evan is the key to all of this-

_Evan, he went to school with us, he was in a car accident as well, and, well, he’s in the same position as you. Can’t remember a thing._

Connor’s spoon drops from his hand. Of course. _Of course._

Alana and Zoe look alarmed. He stands and bites his lip. “Can I borrow your car?”

Zoe raises an eyebrow, “May I remind you that a car is the reason you're here right now?” Connor stares at her with pleading eyes and she seems taken aback by it. “Where do you want to go? I'll drive you.”

“I need to go to Evan Hansen’s house.” He says, immediately.

“Evan Hansen?” Zoe repeats, confusedly. “Why?”

“Because I think he might be able to help me.” Connor tells her honestly.

Zoe looks at Alana and then looks at him, uncertainty in her features. Connor doesn't know what does it, but something flips a switch in her brain and she shakes her head, sighing, “Fuck it, let me get my keys.”

~

Connor thinks it's a wonder Zoe hasn't been in a car crash yet, with the way she drives. She speeds through amber lights, barely slows over speed bumps, and turns corners like she's driving a race car.

Connor holds the handle over his head for most of the drive, and wonders if this is supposed to trigger traumatic memories for him or not. By the time they pull into the driveway of what could barely be considered a house, and looks more like a cottage, he doesn't get triggered at all, and wonders if it's a result of the amnesia.

Doesn't matter.

He and Zoe race up to the door and knock a little too hard and wait on the doorstep with probably not enough patience. The woman who answers the door is blonde and has big blue eyes and looks very surprised to see them. “Hiya, what can I - _Connor?”_

“Heidi?” Connor responds, with as much if not more surprise in his voice.

“You remember Heidi Hansen?” Zoe demands, looking a little hurt.

“She was the nurse who looked after me while I was in hospital in Chicago.” Connor replies, quickly. The last thing he wants to do is hurt his sister, again. “You're Evan’s mother?”

“Yeah, I am.” Heidi looks absolutely bewildered, but she's still the sunshine-hair nurse who spoke soft and comforting words to Connor when he didn't know anything and was so scared that they were all he could hold onto. “Do you want to see him?”

“We really would, Mrs Hansen, if you don't mind.” Zoe says, politely, and speedwalks into the house when Heidi holds the door open for them, wordlessly.

“Alright. Um…Jared!” Heidi bustles further into the house, shouting up the stairs. “Can you bring Evan downstairs, please?”

“Why?” Cries a familiar voice from above.

“We have visitors, who want to see him!” Heidi yells back, and there's thumping on the ceiling. She turns back to them. “Would either of you like tea or something? You look like you came here in a rush.”

“No, thank you.” Zoe declines for both of them, Connor too busy following the plodding footsteps from upstairs to notice he's being addressed. His heart is in his throat. He wants so badly to be right, he wants so badly to unravel this whole mess of events he can't even remember, it's driving him insane.

When Jared and a boy with sandy hair and a dazed look on his face appear in the room, Connor puts all his attention on them, not listening to the soft introductions Heidi is making, not making eye contact with Jared who looks curious and meaningful.

He stares at Evan Hansen, and Evan Hansen stares back, and that's when everything goes black.

~

He doesn't remember her name. He doesn't remember the name they gave him, the cover he was under to be where he was. He remembers that it was his first assignment.

He remembers her screams though. He wasn't always the best and the way that he killed her would attest to that.

She looks far from peaceful, in death; wide eyed and panicked, but dead, all the same.

Connor kneels down, knees soaking in a puddle of her blood, and he closes her eyes, almost mechanically, like he's a robot not a human being.

They come to get him and they strip him off, immediately tossing his blood-drenched clothes in the bin. His hair is drying rust coloured.

The blood flakes off him like dead skin.

He keeps finding blood on him, even as he steps into the shower. It's in his hair. It's all over him.

Connor still smells like the woman's blood when he wakes up for his second assignment.

~

They give him the trench coat along with the file. It's a dark navy blue, with deep pockets and buttons down the front. They tell him that it's Christmas time, and that his mother sent it. They ask him if he'd like to wear it.

He does.

He doesn't know her name, because they never told him. All he knows is that sometime after one am, she will step out of the bar and it's his job to shoot her. It's his job to not miss.

He holds the umbrella over his head, but his legs are getting damp. His boots are soaked. His hair curls from the humidity in the air. It's not the right weather to be wearing the trench coat. But, Connor knows the rules. His family sometimes sends him things. He gets to use them once and then they send it back to them.

If Connor doesn't want to use whatever the gift is, they send it back, immediately.

Connor will wear the trench coat until he has to give it back.

He's distracted, but he does not miss.

He walks as slowly as he can back to the van, but they take it from him while they drive away. He tries to hold onto the sleeves but they pry it from his hands. They have to give him more than usual to get him to settle.

~

The man's name is Matt, and Connor is here to kill him. Just the same as his first assignment.

They gave him free reign on this one. They trust him enough for that. He can do what he wants, but he has to be out of the building by three am, and Matt should be dead before then.

Connor doesn't like knowing too much about his victims. It makes something twist in his gut if he finds out that they have a kid or a spouse or a dream or something that makes them human. Connor doesn't like a lot about his job, he'll admit.

They've come to accept that of him, so they only ever give him necessary details.

Connor sips slowly at his drink, willing Matt to stay in the hotel room a little longer, or, better yet, call Connor back in.

But he doesn't. He ventures out onto the balcony, sipping at his own drink and sighing at the beauty of the city, brightly lit, even at this late at night.

Connor's hand curls around the handle of the knife. He agrees with Matt, _it is beautiful, you’re right._ He lets Matt pull him into a kiss. He lingers a little, feeling queasy at the reluctant feeling in his stomach.

He doesn't want to kill Matt. Matt has done nothing wrong. It's just that his uncle wants him dead, wants his money, wants the attention.

It's his _job._

It doesn't mean he has to like it.

Connor kisses Matt back a little more than he'd usually do, and he tries to pull his attention away, even as he plunges the knife into Matt's back.

Matt whimpers, a little, looking shocked, looking confused, looking pained. Looking _betrayed._ Connor looks away, feeling sick, and lets Matt tip over the railing of the balcony, his glass smashing on the floor.

Connor's quickly follows.

He vomits in the hotel toilet and then cleans up as thoroughly as he can.

He has very little time to get out of the hotel.

He manages it, though only barely.

Connor says to them that he fears he's slipping. He shouldn't have hesitated. He shouldn't have let feelings get in the way of the assignment.

They up his dose, but even Connor knows that he's not as efficient as he used to be. He knows in the moments before they knock him out that he’s not the same as he was, that soon enough he’ll be useless to them.

And then what?

~

He remembers breathing in Evan’s skin, trying to remember anything from before he met him. He is here to kill Dana Perry, but there is also Evan, and sometimes the way he looks at Connor feels so familiar that it _fucking hurts._ Evan’s breathing so quickly that his chest rises and falls against Connor’s like his own heartbeat.

He just wants to stay in this moment forever.

“Connor?” Evan breathes, and Connor pulls away from Evan’s neck, taking in his flushed, dazed face.

“What is it?” Connor asks him, even though he doesn't want to talk. Talking feels like wasting time, and that's the last thing he wants to do with Evan. Soon enough, he'll have to finish the mission, and all this shit with Evan will be over, and Connor will forget him, forget this ever happened, and Evan will be heartbroken, Connor knows.

Connor would be too, if they let him remember anything.

“Why don't you ever talk about your family?”

It's a strange question. Connor wasn't even aware that he had a family. Not this time. The fact that Evan knows, that Evan knew him before he introduced himself, that Evan seems to remember a Connor before this, and expects Connor to remember an Evan before this…it makes him uneasy. “My family?” Connor echoes, trying to keep the confusion out of his voice, and apparently failing, if the frown on Evan’s face is anything to go by.

“Yeah, your family.” Evan agrees, slowly, looking more confused than before. “Your mom and dad, and Zoe. Didn't she just get married? I thought I saw that on her Facebook.”

“I…” Connor hesitates. He could tell Evan the truth, just say he doesn't remember them, that they're not important, that what's important is the mission, though he's disregarding every order for Evan, putting Evan in danger, putting himself in danger- “I don't know.”

“You don't know?” There's something akin to fear slipping into Evan’s tone, like he's alarmed at Connor’s behaviour, like this isn't what he expected. Connor wonders why Evan’s only noticing now, and not when they met and Connor didn't know him the way Evan knew him. “What - what does that mean?”

“Evan.” Connor says, almost as if that would make all of this go away, like he’ll lie down next to Evan, go to sleep, and when he wakes up, he’ll just be a normal guy who doesn't need to murder anyone in the morning. In any case, he can feel tears gathering in his eyes, he can't lie to Evan. “Evan, don't make me do this.”

“Do what?” Evan demands, suddenly pulling away from him. He gets off the bed, stepping away. He looks scared. God, Connor did that. Why does this keep happening? Why do feelings keep coming into this? Why can't Connor keep them out? “Connor, you're scaring me.”

“I can't do this.” He mutters, scrambling across the bed, trying to find solid ground, trying to find _something_ to hold onto while his mind goes crazy. Everything’s falling apart, _he's_ falling apart. If he'd just stuck to the mission, if he hadn't let his feelings get in the way, he could have avoided all of this, but he's such an _idiot_ that he-

“Connor?” Evan says, watching, still as a statue, as Connor tugs on his clothes and freaks out inside his wiped mind, his empty mind, his broken mind - _god, he's so broken._

“God, I'm such an idiot.” Connor says, as he pulls his t-shirt over his head and tucks it, roughly, into his unbuttoned jeans. “I'm _so sorry.”_

“What?” Evan asks, and takes a step towards him, like he hadn't looked _afraid_ of Connor a minute ago.

“I can't stay.” He tells him, and Evan’s entire face falls. “I'm _never_ going to be allowed to stay.”

“What does that mean?” He questions, bewildered.

“I mean I've made a mistake.” Connor informs him, picking up his jacket and pulling on one sleeve before getting to work on his shoes. The sooner he gets out of here, the sooner he can finish the mission and be taken back to HQ. “I can't be here. You need to forget that I was. You need to forget me, and everything we’ve done because it was a mistake and I put you in danger by doing it.”

Evan yells something indistinct, sounding alarmed as Connor pushes him out of the way with too much force, too much brutality, too much fear.

“I'm so sorry.” Connor says again before he sprints out of the house and into the cold, dark night.

~

He comes to on the floor, in the Hansen’s living room, Zoe leaning over him with a panicked look on her face. She sees him open his eyes and her features flood with relief.

“Connor, Jesus, you both collapsed, I was so scared.” She breaths, and leans down to hug him.

Connor barely holds back a gasp at the sudden physical affection, and raises both his hands to place them, softly, on her back, a paled version of her fierce hug. “Zoe.” He whispers, almost driven to tears by her mere presence. God, how he's missed her.

“Yeah, Connor, it’s me.” She hiccups, and when she pulls away, helping him to sit up, he sees that she's crying. Crying for him. Zoe touches the side of his head with the pads of her fingers. “Fuck, did the fall give you worse amnesia?”

“No, Zoe.” He places his hand over hers, relishing the feeling, before saying, “I remember.”

“What?” Her expression turns confused.

“I remember everything.” Connor reiterates and she freezes.

“Oh.” Her expression darkens, closing off. Yes, she expects the him before to burst out, she expects the Connor who threw a chair at her to reappear, angry and unstable. He reaches out to her, pulling back at the last second when he rethinks how that might look and shakes his head, sitting up.

“I was awful to you. There's no way I can ever make up for that, I know.” Zoe nods at him, looking conflicted, glancing at their hands, pressed together between them where she let them fall. “But right now, there's some things I need to do, because I have a feeling everything is about to go to shit.”

Connor gets on his feet, unsteadily, and rounds the couch to where Heidi and Jared are leaning over Evan, in recovery position. Heidi’s crying, and stroking his hair away from his face.

“He's going to be okay.” Connor says. They both look up, surprised. “When he wakes up, keep him calm. I'll be back as soon as I can.”

“Connor, where are you going?” Zoe asks as he heads for the door. There's still tears on her face, tears in her eyes. He didn't know she cared that much about him. How he wishes he could have that for longer. But he can't. Not until he finishes what he started.

“Chicago.” Connor tells her, and watches her eyes widen. “I have a thing to deal with.”

No one stops him as he climbs into Zoe’s car and speeds it towards the airport. No one calls in a panic while he waits for his flight. He closes his eyes and swallows against the lump in his throat. Either this all goes to shit and he never sees them again or he wins and gets to live out his life for the better. Connor’s scared of which it may be, but it's up to him to try.

And he's done letting people down, so he's got to try.

 

**fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in my notes for god knows how long, and I finally decided to just finish it and out it up. I truly meant for it to be longer and have a better ending and shit, but honestly, it was never gonna get published if I went on that way.
> 
> I was also supposed to be writing a Christmas present for my dearest and bestest friend when I finished this, so sincere apologies to you, Drew, I swear I'm gonna finish it, please take this as an apology while you wait.
> 
> If you liked this, please let me know all about it in the comments, and hmu on Tumblr @nose-coffee for notifications when I post and also posts that make me laugh. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed.


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